


Carry the Weight

by lovetincture



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Episode: s11e13 Love Hurts, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:46:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26121397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetincture/pseuds/lovetincture
Summary: He dreams about Amara in his sleep.
Relationships: Amara/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Carry the Weight

He dreams about Amara in his sleep. That’s—it’s novel. It’s been so long since he’s dreamed of anyone. Of anything, for that matter. He can’t sleep, doesn’t sleep—tranqs himself with booze until it’s easier to slide under than it is to stay awake.

The thing about functional alcoholism—it’s only funny if you keep making jokes about it.

“How you holding up?” Sam asks.

“Peachy.”

“Yeah?” That skepticism.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

Sam nods, guileless, eyebrows raised like a flag of surrender. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Alright.”

Peachy.

That’s how all their conversations go these days.

It’s not that Dean wants to talk about it. His head is goddamn Fort Knox. You’d have to pry a single feeling out of him like pulling teeth—with pliers, while he tries to take a swing at you—but just. Sometimes it seems like he should be able to.

It’s—lonely, sometimes. All alone in his head with the things that won’t let him sleep. Sometimes it scares him, this thought that haunts him on the border of sleep and waking, that ghost town of in-betweens. Sometimes it gets him to think he’ll die and no one will ever really know him. Not all the way. Not really.

Sam comes the closest, always has, always will, but. Well.

It’s an in-between time type thought. It chases him down into the darkness, but now she’s waiting there. She doesn’t illumine the halls of his mind, but she makes the roiling blackness seem a little less unfriendly.

He doesn’t see her, not really. He can recall her in perfect detail if he closes his eyes—the swell of her breasts, the pout of her lips, the severe topography of her cheeks. He remembers what Amara looks like, couldn’t forget if you paid him, but he never sees her in dreams.

Instead, he gets pieces of her in little flashes. The silk of her skin. The sound of her voice. The impression of being held.

It’s that last one—it gets him every time. He wakes up booze-soaked, sweating through his sheets. He wakes up with a pounding head, hangover screaming through his temples sending him out in search of coffee, Sam hiding those judging, concerned looks behind pursed lips and the rim of his own mug.

But before that, peace. Just for a second.

There’s a moment when he wakes up, just on the border of sleep and waking. He can never remember what she said, but he can still hear her voice in his head. It leaves him with a lasting impression of peace. A sweetness that cuts like a knife. He wants to grab it and take it with him, but he knows he can’t.

He breathes and his lungs fill up with air, and just for a little while—just the barest hint of a second—they feel weightless. Like nothing’s ever happened to him. Like he could be anyone.

He misses her in those moments.

For a second, he’s almost free.


End file.
